


peachtree battle

by catchafallingstarfish (spaceboy_niko)



Series: who writes songfics in 2017 [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emetophobia, Established Relationship, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Sad letters, i dont know what else to tag, ish??? i don't know what crew he's part of, just in case, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 17:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/catchafallingstarfish
Summary: Ryan's been gone for such a long time, and Gavin still waits.Inspired by 'Coming Home' by Butch Walker





	1. somewhere in the back of your eyelids

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2018 and the songfics are still happening (song in question is a banger btw)
> 
> so i still haven't finished the things i said would be done, but that's okay, right? i think they'll be done...soon? ish? idk man

It was hanging from his seatbelt, left for dead in a flipped car stained with fake blood, that Ryan indulged himself in some rare introspection.

When the blood rushed to his head and his vision warped through the windshield, he came to a conclusion: he was wrong, and he should go home.

He gave a quick look out the window and twisted around to see if they were waiting for him, but the road was dark and silent except for the sound of his engine ticking cool. Bracing a hand over his head, he clicked his seatbelt and flopped onto the roof with a wince. He fumbled the door handle and slid out of the car.

Ryan surveyed the damage. He could see the skid marks on the tarmac where he’d started to come off the road, their abrupt cut-off where he’d gone airborne and the wide gash in the roadside where his roof had cut through the gravel. His car was beyond repair, too – the paint on the roof was all but gone, the metal was warped and scratched and the hood of his car had bent almost perfectly to the shape of a rock. It wasn’t looking good.

Hauling himself up the steep roadside up to the highway, Ryan kept low as a truck lumbered by. No sign of the gang. He slid back down and pulled off the constricting rubber of his mask, tossing it carelessly into the front of the car and checking his reflection in the wing mirror. He deemed himself civilian-looking enough, and wrenched up one of the back seats, catching the canister of gasoline that fell out. It pooled in the dents in the roof and soaked into the fabric, and the slightly linty surface caught fire easily with a little coercion from Ryan’s lighter.

As the car burned, he trekked back up to the highway and stuck out his thumb. Another truck came by, emblazoned with a frozen food company’s logo, and slowed down to stop a way in front of him. Good enough.

Jogging up to the truck’s passenger side, he opened the door and slid in gratefully. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Where you going?” the driver asked. Not a familiar face, or voice. He was safe.

And he was coming home.

* * *

For Gavin, it was a normal day. Same as it had been for the past eight years (and six months, and two days – but it wasn’t like he was counting).

He woke up, half-sprawled over his half of the bed and the other half, took a shower, made toast – on special occasions, like birthdays and anniversaries, he’d open one of the now-many tins of beans – and sat and ate it at the kitchen table, hair still slightly damp and butter melting through, reading the news on his iPad.

A car rumbled past and his eyes flicked up expectantly, but the sun shone off its clean hood as it went past his house, and he dropped his gaze back to the news.

The local not-really-a-headline story made his stomach twist uneasily – a car found overturned and charred outside the city, suspected to be related to the turf war that shouldn’t concern civilians like Gavin. A wonder the news reported it, really – the paper had changed hands several times since the scuffle escalated, and there wasn’t anything that surprised anyone anymore.

He tried not to let his gaze stray towards the ostentatious glass-fronted cabinet that had been an engagement present and was now slowly filling with cheaper liquor. There was good stuff in it, obviously – just at the back, more out of his reach, where he wouldn’t drink it.

Several-and-a-half glasses of bottom-shelf bourbon later, Gavin was annoyed, and confused, and still worried. A burnt car from a turf war had his name written all over it. The article didn’t go too in depth, but Gavin’s tipsy scrutiny of the photo showed burnt-dried splatters on the windows and something congealed against the upside-down roof. The driver couldn’t have survived that incident – not for long, anyway.

 _Good riddance to the bastard_ , Gavin thought sourly, jamming the lid on the bottle, and trudged upstairs again, twisting his ring round his finger.


	2. sleeping at the wheel of a car that won't roll

Ryan absently twisted his ring around in the back seat. The masked face in shotgun twisted around to look at him, and gave a muffled laugh. “Someone back home, big guy?”

“Wh–? Yeah. Been a while, though.”

“How long?”

“How long’ve you known me?”

The mask was mute. “So, not long enough then.” They hesitated again. “Should really take that off, you know. Someone’ll find ‘em.”

“They won’t,” Ryan replied curtly. “I promised him they won’t.”

The car was silent again. This time the driver broke the thick quiet.

“Why are you out here, anyway, new boy? You’ve got some fight in you, Vagabond, so. Who’re you fighting?”

Ryan thought for a second, mulled over the hundreds of things he was angry at, then decided. “Georgia.”

“The state?”

“The whole damn state.”

“The fuck d’you have against Georgia?”

“Been there too long. Would’ve liked to die in Vegas, but left it a bit late, didn’t I?” He laughed bitterly. “Doesn’t look as good once you’re past twenty-five.”

“How would you have done it?” the mask in shotgun asked tentatively.

“Run a pipe from the fuel tank of a stolen Maserati to the driver’s seat, and listened to her purr with Pink Floyd playing until I couldn’t hear it anymore.”

* * *

The box was the only thing important to Gavin upstairs. The bedroom didn’t even quite cut it anymore.

He never talked about the box – it was his little secret, one that been a part of his life for the past eight years (and six months and two days – not that he was counting).

And he only ever looked at the box in moments of weakness, or when he was drunk, or both. He felt that now was a both moment.

The box somehow managed to fit under his bed, and Gavin clumsily wrestled it out. His initials were carved almost awkwardly into the lid with a boxcutter, and the unassuming letters were what sent a wave of nausea crashing over him.

Gavin caught the box with his ankle and sent it over as he scrambled to his feet and dashed to the bathroom, barely making it before choking and retching over the toilet, coughing over the remains of toast, stale booze, fresh booze and something he didn’t remember.

Head throbbing, he brushed his teeth, then threw out his toothbrush and brushed them again, rinsing his mouth out twice before struggling through swallowing a couple of aspirin.

The box sat overturned on the bedroom floor, its contents spilling onto the floor and sitting on the carpet like a stain – a mess of papers and photos and old clothes that made a hot lump rise in Gavin’s throat and tears prick behind his eyes again.

Sighing, he set about putting everything back inside with muttered curses, allowing himself the little luxury of giving the miscellany a more-than-cursory glance as he folded an old jacket, wrapped up a tie, stacked photos taken at a much happier time in his life and–

As he shook out a shirt to re-fold it (the box’s packer was never very good at it), a envelope fell out, one he’d seen so many times before. He’d almost forgotten about it.


	3. tell momma and dad that i know they cared

Ryan’s heart ached at the sight of him sitting at the table eating breakfast, hair still damp from his shower and butter melting through his toast, half-watching the news while answering emails on his iPad.

“Morning, love,” he murmured, more awake than he had been when Ryan had pried him off to take a shower. He raised an eyebrow at the bag Ryan had. “Work stuff?”

Ryan hummed, neither in the affirmative or negative, and pressed his face into the slightly wet hair. “You busy today?”

“Hm, no, why?”

“I was going to swing by my parents’ today, but work’s gonna run late. D’you mind popping in and saying hi from me? Tell them I still love them and all that?”

“Never need an excuse to see the future in-laws, do I?” He looked up and properly smiled, and Ryan’s heart hurt again.

“Thanks, dear.”

“No trouble. See you later, love.”

“Oh, and there’s something upstairs for you, take a look this evening.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do I need to wait for you to get home to see it?”

“Nah. Love you.”

“Love you too!” followed Ryan out the door.

He only allowed himself to cry once he was on the safety of the interstate.

* * *

The envelope wasn’t properly sealed anymore, the flap tucked reverently inside to keep it closed and Gavin’s name written on the front in a messy hand. The paper inside was nothing special, just regular lined paper ripped from a notebook, but Gavin treated it like it was an original First Folio as he unfolded it again.

_Lovely, lovely Gavin,_

_Hopefully this’ll say everything I couldn’t._

_By the time you read this, I’m going to be long out of town. Don’t try to find me. It’s something I need to do._

_I know I said I was reformed, but I guess this is one last hurrah. I need to kill off the Vagabond for good, and I’m not going to be able to do that sitting around at home with you, so I’m going back. Maybe I’ll find my old gang, or maybe they’re all dead. I don’t know._

 

“Then why the fuck did you go?” Gavin muttered.

 

_I’m doing this to keep you safe. There are people out there who still think I’m alive, who could still find me, and I don’t know if you’re in danger. This is for the good of both of us._

_I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I hope you’ll still be here, wherever here is. Keep your eyes on the road for me, darling, and wait for my lights in the driveway._

 

Gavin didn’t notice he was crying until the ink started to run. He folded the damp note up roughly and jammed it back in the envelope, cramming it into the box where he didn’t have to look at it anymore. The last few things – a dress shirt, an old tie, a dried boutonniere – went back in the box and were shoved back under the bed almost carelessly.

He stood with a sigh and a crack of joints, and shuffled back downstairs, and it was only during the opening sequence of Game of Thrones that he let himself cry properly, with big hiccupping sobs that made him shake and curl further into the couch.

His patience was wearing thin, because there was no way he could keep on waiting like this.


	4. take a look in the driveway for the lights

It was lucky the Vagabond had such a good reputation, otherwise Ryan probably wouldn’t have made it.

He was snapped up by a gang, and a few years of small jobs led him into a tailspinning turf war.

Ryan was arguably the best driver in the new crew, and normally they’d all pile into one or two cars and shake off any competition, but this time there were too many rivals to lose, so Ryan took one of their cars and drove like hell was rising behind him.

A sound like a gunshot made him swerve, and the force of his blown tyre was enough to totally derail him, sending him over and over.

He vaguely thought that this is what it was like in a washing machine, before remembering the plan – a plan he’d taken almost nine years to implement.

He’d learned how to make blood capsules back in his college days, and they’d proved endlessly helpful for tricky escapes. He bit down on one now, and let some of it drip down his chin, spitting the rest over the window and obscuring his face from the outside world.

He waited, upside down, holding his breath and hanging limp from his seatbelt as crunching footsteps came to inspect his car.

“I dunno, Kovic, his neck looks broke. He can’t’ve made it, not with this much blood everywhere.”

A muffled yell.

“Yeah, I know the Vagabond’s a tricky bastard, but not even he could get his way outta this one!”

More footsteps approaching. “I don’t know if I believe the fucker.” A rifle cocked and Ryan nearly tensed.

“Kovic, he’s not worth the slug. They’re all dead, now, aren’t’cha happy with that?”

“Fine, but if I hear anything about the Vagabond comin’ back, your ass is first against the wall.”

The footsteps left, and Ryan breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Which is how he found himself on the freeway almost home in the passenger seat of a frozen food truck.

“I’m nearly there, if you want I can get–“ he began tentatively.

The trucker waved a hand. “What’s a little detour? This old girl’s not carting anything. Tell me where.”

Ryan directed him through the neatly kept suburbs until a familiar house came into view. “That one.”

“I’ll let you go, then. Anyone waiting for you?”

Ryan shook his head sadly. “Probably not anymore. Thanks so much for the lift.”

* * *

The TV had been muted for well over an hour now – he’d discovered he liked Lord Of The Rings a lot better with the sound off – and the rest of the house was dark except for the light of Gavin’s phone as he scrolled through Twitter with a bottle of whiskey.

A low rumble came from outside, but he ignored it. He’d been waiting too long now, he decided.

The engine rumble seemed to hesitate, then moved off down the street, headlights making stripes against the curtains through the blinds.

A harsh rapping at the door jolted him out of his stupor, and the doorbell made his ears ring.

“Coming, coming,” he grumbled, and yanked open the door.

He nearly dropped the whiskey.

“So, uh, it’s been a while. How’ve you been, Gav?” Ryan said sheepishly.

* * *

In hindsight, Ryan should’ve been prepared for the sharp slap to the face, still lightning fast even when Gavin was drunk.

“You,” he said accusingly, voice a little thick from the liquor, “are a grade-A asshole. I like your mother too much to call you a son of a bitch, but you.”

Ryan tensed and shut his eyes in preparation for another slap, or the blow of the bottle in Gavin’s other hand. What he wasn’t prepared for was the warm press of Gavin’s face into his chest and gangly arms wrapping around his neck.

“You dick, I missed you so much,” Gavin mumbled, squeezing Ryan tighter before pulling away and standing back to look him over.

“You’re a mess,” he declared, and Ryan scoffed.

“Coming from you, the burgeoning alcoholic.”

Gavin winced. “Ryan, I don’t know what that word means sober.”

“What, alcoholic?”

Gavin rolled his eyes and twisted a hand into Ryan’s hair, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like whiskey and fake blood and Gavin. Ryan smiled as Gavin curled his fingers and the ring pressed against his scalp.

“I think you taste,” he murmured when they broke apart softly, “like whiskey and insomnia.”

Gavin raised an eyebrow. “What does insomnia taste like?”

“I dunno, let me see again,” Ryan said, and Gavin stretched up to meet him.

He was right – Gavin tasted like whiskey, and insomnia, and home.

**Author's Note:**

> yo itd be nice if u came and visited me on tumblr @spaceboy-niko or @catchafallingstarfish


End file.
